Centrefold
by SadArticle
Summary: Kitt has an admirer, and a few awkward questions for Michael. A 'missing scene' from the first series episode 'The Topaz Connection', short and sweet!


Centrefold

There was no physical sensation that he could detect, but the feeling was good. She wanted him – no, not wanted. Many covetous eyes would take in his sleek and powerful body, or look back after passing him in the street, and he frequently submitted to stealthy caresses from the wandering hands of strangers who couldn't resist touching his skin.

This was different. She _desired_ him, and Kitt was enjoying the moment.

"What I wouldn't give for one of these!"

In return, he scanned the female model, a brunette barely covered by a red bathing costume, and thought that Michael would find her very attractive. She was leaning over his hood, stroking the smooth, warm surface with what he calculated to be a gentle touch. A black car on a hot day, building up surface temperatures in excess of 100 degrees, was not usually a favourable seating arrangement for scantily clad young women. Luckily for her hands, and the front of her thighs where they pressed against his fender, the MBS dampened and redistributed the heat of the mid-morning sun.

"What a beautiful car," she cooed. Her voice was almost a whisper, far too low for the photographer and other girls in the background to overhear, and Kitt flattered himself that she meant her praise just for him. "Like silk," she sighed, trailing her fingertips over the contours of the cowl induction.

Kitt activated his heat sensors, following a virtual representation of her touch in hot reds, pinks, oranges and yellows on the CRT screen. He almost wished that Bonnie knew a way to embed pressure sensors in the car itself, but such a heightened level of awareness would probably overload his system. Processing input from onboard devices at the same as monitoring Michael over the comlink was already breaking his concentration. He wasn't unduly alarmed when the scanner malfunctioned, splitting the steady sweep of red light into two opposing pulses.

"Careful, honey," the photographer advised. "Don't burn yourself on the metal – I wouldn't want you to match your costume."

The girl exhaled sharply through her nose, and threw a sidelong glance in his direction. "It's not hot," she called back: "Feels like ... skin temperature."

"That's great," he said, setting up his camera. "Hop on before it starts to cook."

She moved around to the front of the car, trailing her fingertips along the edge of the hood. "Hey, look at this red light!" she exclaimed, crouching in front of the still erratic scanner.

"What'd I say? It's a perfect match, red and black. Get on."

The one person's weight on the car that Kitt tolerated was Michael Knight, and that was only because it was the safest place for him outside of the cabin. Being used as a perch or a prop was undignified and disrespectful, and Kitt could usually find some method of removing the unwanted guest, but this time he did not object.

"Where shall I sit?"

"How about –" the photographer stepped back and cocked his head to one side, considering the car. "Over here," he decided, motioning the girl around to the passenger side, "and sit with your legs towards the headlight, so that I can get this freaky little lightshow into the shot."

"Like this?" She boosted herself backwards onto the hood and assumed the suggested pose with ease, fluffing out her dark hair. Kitt was gratified to note that she was holding her heels off to one side, even though it would take far more than a pair of 3 inch metallic sandals to scratch his finish.

"Gorgeous, babe," the photographer beamed and lifted the camera.

He danced around, snapping out shots and trite adjectives in equal measure. The girl tossed her head and smiled or pouted as instructed, and Kitt began to find the whole process rather tedious. His admirer was no longer paying any attention to him, even though he had helpfully readjusted his right front suspension to accommodate her weight.

Enough was enough. She was distracting him from his job, which was to stay alert and be ready if Michael needed him. Kitt hastily reset his scanner and covered the house and grounds with a broad sweep of his sensors. His partner was in an upstairs office, and although his blood pressure was moderately elevated, he did not appear to be in danger.

"Hey, that light's gone out!" the photographer complained.

"Perhaps it's some kind of alarm?" the girl suggested, gracefully swinging her legs off the hood.

"Wait!" he called. "Just there! Now ... cross your ankles again – smile – that's it!" Another rapid succession of snaps and flashes followed, and then the photographer lowered his camera. "Perfect!"

"We're done?"

"Got it," he confirmed. "Beautiful! Cars and girls – works every time!"

Kitt processed this. From observing Michael Knight, he was aware that the bodywork of powerful machines and attractive women held an equal appeal for human males. His partner's attention was easily distracted by the sleek lines of a low-slung sports car or a woman's soft curves in a bikini, although Kitt preferred to believe that other, lesser automobiles were no longer such a temptation for Michael. Photographing cars and girls together simply combined the desirable attributes of both models in one attainable package.

He was proud of his body, and the attention excited by the aerodynamic shape of his chassis and the mirror finish of his black shell. Kitt's vanity exceeded even Michael's self-image on occasion, and he liked to hear people praising his outward appearance. Still, it would have been polite of the photographer to ask Michael first before employing his car as a co-ordinating backdrop.

Kitt was still brooding on the matter an hour later. The magazine publisher's daughter had taken off for Las Vegas in her private jet, leaving them to chase after her through the desert – an even race at Kitt's top speed. And with half an hour still to pass, Michael was a captive target. Seeking the categorically human and actively male perspective that only his partner could offer, Kitt decided he would consult with him on the appeal of 'cars and girls'.

"I found the whole experience unproductive and demeaning," the computer announced.

Michael glanced at the voice modulator and then at his watch.

"Now what's your problem?" he asked.

The digital speedometer was rapidly approaching 210 mph, which was not a comfortable speed for either car or driver. Combined with the sand from the dirt roads that was being sucked into his turbine, Kitt was glad that Bonnie would be following in the semi.

"My problem is being treated like a decorative garden feature," he told him. "Back there, at the Escape mansion. I fail to see the attraction."

Michael frowned at the dash. "You mean those women? They weren't being 'unproductive', Kitt – they're the Escape girls. That's what they do."

"I'm not talking about those underdressed models, Michael," Kitt said. "I was referring to myself!"

"You?" Michael laughed.

"Yes, me! While you were failing to persuade Miss Royce that she couldn't function without your invaluable assistance, I was being photographed for the magazine! Some young woman in a red costume was instructed to drape herself across my hood, because apparently black and red look well together."

Now he had his partner's attention. "Well, they do," Michael smirked.

"That is hardly the point!" Kitt insisted. "I am the Knight Industries 2000, not a _chaise longue_!"

"Say what?"

"A sofa, Michael," Kitt explained. "He had her turning her legs this way and that, leaning back and tilting to one side, smiling and pouting. You should have been there – no, I'm glad you were otherwise engaged. It was all quite ridiculous."

"Kitt, she was just taking advantage of her natural talents, that's all," Michael said, still smiling to himself. "Was she good-looking?"

"You would probably have thought so."

"Sexy?" he joked.

"Really, Michael, how am I to be the judge of that? She was a petite brunette with brown eyes, weighing approximately 112 pounds. Is that considered 'sexy'?"

Michael sighed. "Kitt, 'sexy' isn't about what you look like," he tried to explain, keeping his eyes fixed on the road, "it's more about how others see you."

"I don't understand."

Kitt watched Michael shift awkwardly in his seat, leaning back only to sit forward again, and then check the time.

"How much longer till the airport?"

"35 minutes," Kitt replied instantly, "and it was only a question, Michael."

"Yeah, well," Michael said, clearing his throat. "I'm not sure I can put it into words."

"According to Webster's Dictionary, 'sexy' is an adjective meaning 'sexually attractive', or something that attracts a lot of interest and attention," he recited.

"Did you just look that up?"

"I thought a definition would help you along," Kitt offered. "Can a person or thing also be attractive in a non-sexual way?"

"Yes, of course," Michael agreed. "It just depends what turns you on."

"'Turns you on'?"

"I mean, whatever your personal tastes are."

"Oh, I see," Kitt said, "thank you, Michael."

He fell silent for a moment. Michael narrowed his eyes at the voice modulator.

"Would I be considered 'sexy'?" Kitt finally enquired.

What a question! Despite spending months on the road with a talking car, Michael could still be left speechless by the candour of Kitt's conversation. If clarification was required, Kitt kept on until he was satisfied with the answer, in the same way that his softly-spoken yet insistent synthesised voice was impossible to ignore if he had an opinion to put forward. Michael knew there was only one way he was ever going to hear the end of this.

"This car?" he asked, rephrasing Kitt's question. "Yeah, this car is sexy."

"In what way?"

"I cannot believe I am saying this," Michael muttered to himself. "Well, it's – Kitt, let me tell you what I thought, first time I saw you."

"You thought I was your car," Kitt reminded him. "That is, Michael Long's car."

"What else was I supposed to think?" he challenged his partner's perfect memory. "One black Trans-Am is pretty much the same as another. But when I looked closer, Kitt, I knew this couldn't be the same car I left out in the Nevada desert. This car took my breath away. The lines, the mirror finish, the power beneath the hood – Kitt, you are _unique_."

"Thank you, Michael." When the modulator flickered back into life, Kitt asked, "Is the combination of aesthetics and performance what makes a car 'sexy'?"

"I'd say that's a good a definition as any," Michael agreed. "And partner, you've got it all."

"The young lady was certainly impressed," Kitt confided. "And the photographer told her we were a good match."

"Don't let it go to your processor, pal," Michael warned. "Unless of course you're planning a change of career?"

"Of course not, Michael," Kitt replied seriously. "All that waiting around would be bad for my systems. I wasn't designed to be inactive."

Michael eased off the gas pedal, watching the speedometer drop down into double digits. They were approaching the city.

"That's good to hear, pal, or I'd have been left standing at the airfield in LA," he said, patting the dash. "We make a good team, Kitt."

"You wouldn't trade me for another model, would you?"

Michael pretended to consider the alternatives. "Does that include convertibles?"

"Well, if you prefer half a car and none of the protection of my molecular bonded shell, I'm sure driving a cabriolet would appeal to you," Kitt acceded grandly.

"No, Kitt, I'm only joking," Michael told him, biting back a smile. "Unless Bonnie could convert this baby into a soft top, of course," he added, waving a hand at the roof.

"Bonnie would never allow such unnecessary destruction," the computer insisted.

"Lucky for you, pal."

After nearly an hour of high-speed seclusion, they finally rejoined traffic, weaving through Las Vegas to arrive at McCarran Airport before the impetuous Miss Royce's plane touched down.

"And speaking of Bonnie," Michael said, turning onto Paradise Road, "don't go asking her the same questions you asked me. She already thinks I'm a bad influence on you."

"I won't," Kitt assured him. "I don't think Bonnie would understand."

Michael laughed. "No kidding. Let's just hope you're not the next centrefold!"

FIN


End file.
